“Who can that be?” Jean said.
Annie stood on tiptoe to get a better look. The man nodded toward the castle, and the hood fell away from his face.
“Innes!” she said in disgust.
“Why is he talking to Baen?” Jean asked in puzzlement.
“I don’t know,” Annie replied, dread washing over her as she thought of the conversation she’d witnessed between Bryce and Innes. She glanced along the parapet at the burly blacksmith and felt a moment of relief at seeing him still at his post. But why was Innes down there in the thick of the battle talking to Baen? Did his loyalties lie with the bullish captain who had brought them all so much grief? What did he hope to achieve? Silently, she watched as the men spurred their horses and rode away together. Seemingly, Baen had given no thought to the men he’d led into such a one-sided battle. Then a horn sounded, and slowly, the remaining attackers left the field in an unruly rout and followed Baen. How many would ride under his banner again, she wondered when he’d abandoned them so cowardly.
Blood up, Aindreas and Gare signaled their men to follow, which they quickly did. Rafe waved his men to stay and guard the castle. Obviously, he didn’t trust Baen not to double back and try to attack the castle once he’d drawn away the defenders.
“Aindreas!” Jean said in anguish as she watched him ride in pursuit of Baen and his men, then she fell silent, head lowered in silent acceptance of what the fates would bring her.
Annie touched her shoulder in unspoken comfort and turned back to the scene below. Rafe sat upon his mount, gazing over the field of abandoned dead bodies, shield lowered, shoulders slumped in defeat although he and his forces had triumphed. Annie knew he was not a man to take satisfaction in the death of another, friend or enemy. He’d not revel in the defeat of dead men.
Annie thought of the men who’d lost their lives here. Most of them wore unfamiliar ragged tartans, adventurers, men from broken clans, for hire now to the highest bidder, looking for any advancement offered them. Bhaltair stood silent except for an occasional snort to dislodge the flies, which had already flocked to the death field.
No longer able to watch Rafe in his moment of despair and triumph, Annie slumped down against the parapet wall, curling into a ball as her gaze swept along the walkway. The archers had relaxed their stance, their bows lowered although most of them kept their gaze pinned on the scene below in case the enemy came back. Only one stood ready at a crenel, his bow drawn, an arrow nocked. Even as she watched, he drew his bow taut, the muscles of his broad back and shoulders rippling. At first, her mind didn’t register that Bryce was the bowman and when it did, she felt a quiver of fear then denial as she whirled to gaze out at the battle scene. Had Baen come back? Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. Only one enemy was below—Rafe Campbell!
She screamed and turned toward Bryce, her legs moving woodenly as she ran toward him, but before she reached him, he’d released the arrow. She heard it sing against the wind, a promise of death. She paused at a crenel, her gaze frantically searching for a tall, wide-shouldered figure astride a magnificent black steed. Her heartbeat slowed as she caught sight of him. Bryce had missed, she thought joyfully. Then the arrow found its target, burying itself deep in his side. He jerked and put a hand to the point of entry, then slowly toppled from his horse to the ground.
“Annie, what is it?” Jean asked, running to put an arm around her, but Annie shook her off.
“No!” she cried and turned to throw herself at Bryce.
He’d already dropped the bow and was preparing to make his getaway when she barreled into him, her fists pummeling his face and neck. The commotion drew the attentions of the archers who laughed, at first, to see the tiny goose girl fighting the brute of a blacksmith. Bryce threw her off, his face a dark mask of triumph. He’d used such force that she landed against the stone parapet wall and slid down to the walkway, her breath gone, her mind and heart black with grief and disbelief.
“What are you doing?” Jean rushed toward them.
Vaguely, Annie discerned Bryce had stepped over her and was racing toward the stairs, his anvil clutched in his hand and Archibald Campbell in his path. Bryce never paused when he reached the old man seated in his chair. The blacksmith raised his hammer and bashed it against Archibald’s temple. Blood and gray matter spread around him and he slumped in his chair, his rheumy eyes staring vacantly at the sky.
Bryce fled down the staircase and in the confusion no one called him back or pursued him. One of the guards came forward to peer down at Archibald.
“He’s killed the Laird. Stop that man.” He sprang down the stairs in pursuit of the blacksmith. Other men followed. There was no one to see what he’d done to Rafe.
“Annie, what happened? What’s wrong?” Jean demanded.
“Laird Archibald is dead and Rafe’s been wounded,” she stuttered between efforts to get her breath again. “I must go to him.” With Jean’s help, she struggled to her feet and made for the stairs. She had only one thought, and that was to get to Rafe.
“Open the gate!” she shouted as she raced across the outer bailey.
Guards turned to gaze at her in astonishment.
“Annie, what are you about?” one of them asked. He’d always been a kind soul, waving to her from a distance and remarking on the weather.
“Clach, open the gate. Your commander’s been wounded.”
“Aye?” He looked at her dumbfounded. “You’re speaking, lass. I’ve never heard your voice before.”
“Open the bleeding gate!” she shouted. “Rafe Campbell lies without with an arrow in his side.”
Clach looked at the other guards, and as one, they ran to open the gate and lower the drawbridge. Annie ran out on the bridge and leaped to the ground on the other side before it had settled in place. Before her lay a field of dead bodies and horses. From this angle, it was difficult to tell where Rafe had fallen, but she was undeterred. She rushed forward, skirting the bodies of men who lay silent in death, their open eyes gazing at a sky that had shown them no mercy this day.
The flies had thickened over the dead, their buzz loud in the hot, noonday sun. Impatiently, Annie waved them from her face and pressed on. Her chest was tight with fear so she could barely breathe. Behind her, Clach and the other guards followed, their deep voices uttering curses and disbelief in her claim. Frantically she searched, trying to remember exactly what landmarks there’d been from her view on the parapet. But here, on the ground, everything was different, distorted by the horror of fallen bodies. Finally, she spotted Bhaltair standing faithfully, his head lowered protectively over the body of his master. He neighed a warning as Annie slogged closer and knelt beside Rafe’s body. Rearing on his hind legs, the stallion pawed the air and landed dangerously close to Annie.
“Easy, boy,” she said. “I’ll not hurt him. I love him, too.”
Quickly, her hands moved over Rafe as she tried to assess how badly he was injured. He lay so quiet, she feared he was dead, and her heart leaped in denial. Leaning forward, she held her cheek near his lips and waited. There! A tiny breath of air. He was alive but weakened by his wound. She touched the arrow, wanting to rip it from his side, but to do so might cause hemorrhaging that would mean certain death. She glanced back at the castle and saw that Clach and his men were approaching.
“Here,” she called. “He’s here, and he’s still alive.”
“Auld Clootie take me, the lassie’s aright,” Clach yelled back at the other men. “Hie yourselves here, lads. We’d best get him to the castle so the midwife can look at him.”
“Is he alive?” one of the guards asked.
“He looks a goner to me,” said another.
“He’s still breathing,” Annie cried so passionately that the men looked at each other uneasily.
“Aye, the lass would know,” Clach said though he had no reason to give her such credibility. “Come on, lads, let’s get him up.”
“Be careful,” Annie urged, moving out of the way.
She hovered nearby as the guards, two on each side, lifted their commander and carried him back toward the castle, then followed behind, a prayer forming on her lips. Jean waited at the open gate and put her arms around Annie.
“Is he still alive?”
she
asked.
Numbly, Annie nodded. “Aye, for now.”
“He’ll be all right, lass,” her friend said and walked beside Annie, gripping her hand as they made their way into the castle.
“What is it? What’s going on?” a shrill voice called. Dianne rushed forward, her eyes wide and fearful. “Why are you bringing that man in here?”
“’Tis Rafe, Dianne. He’s been wounded,” Jean answered and motioned the men toward the stairs.
They carried Rafe upstairs to his chamber and placed him on the bed. One of the guards was dispatched to summon Alyce.
“Bring water and cloth,” Jean cried and a maid quickly appeared bearing the items requested.
Annie took the basin of water and wet a cloth then knelt beside the bed, where she bathed Rafe’s brow and his wound, washing away the grime of battle. His paleness worried her. Alyce hadn’t appeared yet, and Annie feared to delay much longer. The arrow must be removed. Taking a deep breath, she rose and grasped the shaft, praying the arrowhead would not remain as she applied a steady pressure. Rafe jerked and cried out in pain.
“What is she doing?” Dianne cried. “She’s hurting him. Get her out of here.”
At that moment, the arrow came free and to Annie’s relief, intact.
“Make her leave,” Dianne insisted.
“Let her be,” Jean snapped. “She knows what she’s doing.”
Annie ignored them and calmly packed the bleeding wound with clean cloths. At that moment, Alyce arrived and came to the bedside.
“There, the midwife is here. Get that filthy creature out of here,” Dianne declared.
“There’s no harm in her staying,” Jean said, her lean brown face suffused with an angry red color.
“Jean,” the blonde woman said, drawing herself up in a haughty pose. “You’re new here and perhaps you’re unaware that when I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed. This vile creature smells bad. She walks around the geese with bare feet. There’s no telling what’s there. Look at her, she filthy. She must leave at once.”
Jean’s color remained high, but her eyes snapped with anger. “I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped my place as your guest,” she said in dulcet tones that belied her expression. “Come, Annie. We’ll go for now.” She placed an arm around Annie’s shoulders and guided her out of the room.
“I can’t leave,” Annie protested once they reached the landing. “I must know he’ll recover.”
“Come to my chambers then,” Jean said. “We’ll keep watch from there.” She led Annie along the landing to another door, which she threw open and urged the goose girl inside. Annie hesitated before entering, looking around at the achingly familiar room.
“This was mama’s room,” she said softly. “I remember coming here when I was a tottie lass. She was so ill, she couldn’t come downstairs so Papa, and I came here to visit with her.” She walked into the room, looking around in wonder and puzzlement. “It’s so different,
and
yet it’s the same.”
Jean twisted her fingers together. “This is so wrong. You belong here, not all the rest of us. Why don’t you reveal your true identity now that Archibald is dead?”
Annie shook her head. “I can’t think about any of that now except that Rafe might die.” She collapsed onto a stool and began to sob, great, heavy sounds that shook her small body.
“Oh, Annie, I’m sorry. Of course, none of this matters now. He’ll be all right. He has to be. You’ve lost so much already. It just makes me so angry at the unfairness of it all. You’re not a lowly goose girl. You’re every bit a lady as Dianne is, more so if you ask me. To think of how she spoke about you.”
“Don’t fret yourself, Jean,” Annie said and hugged her friend. “Things will work out as they’re meant to.” She crossed to the window and peered down at the bailey. Where was Bryce now, she wondered. Had he taken refuge at the smithy believing she’d not betray him or was he fleeing across the hills? Why had he
taken such a step
? Hadn’t he thought of how it would reflect on all of them if the truth were known? And who would take his place? Would it be someone who cared about the villagers as he had?
Her musings were interrupted by the sound of approaching horsemen. Gare and Aindreas rode into the outer bailey, dismounted and stalked through the inner bailey to the castle.
“Jean, Aindreas has returned,” Annie said. “He and Gare are below.”
“Thanks be to God’s mercy,” Jean exclaimed and fairly flew from the room. “Aindreas.”
Annie heard Jean’s happy cry and followed after. What would Gare say when he heard Rafe had been wounded? She reached the bottom of the steps just as Jean drew away from Aindreas’ embrace and turned to Gare.
“It’s Rafe,” she said. “He’s been wounded.”
“Nay,” Gare gasped in consternation. “I shouldn’t have left him, but all seemed safe enough. We had Baen and his men on the run. Who was left to do this?”
Jean glanced at Annie who shook her head slightly.
“It was the blacksmith. After he shot Rafe, he used his hammer to kill Laird Archibald,” Jean said, refusing to shield Bryce as Annie wished. “He got away.”
“I’ll go after him,” Gare said, but Aindreas stepped forward.
“Stay and see to Rafe. I know the man, and I’ll go after him.” He gave Jean a quick embrace and hurried out to the bailey. They could hear him calling to his men.
Gare turned his face to study the goose girl. “Thank you, Annie. You’ve always been a friend to Rafe. I’m going up to see him. Come with me, lass.”
Annie shook her head and backed away.
“Dianne has ordered her out of the castle,” Jean informed him.
Gare’s face darkened. “The bitch,” he said bitterly and climbed the steps two at a time to get to his friend.
“I’ll go now,” Annie said to Jean. “Will you send word how’s he’s doing?”
“You don’t have to go, lass,” Jean said then fell silent as Annie turned toward the door. “I’ll come myself to tell you.”